But, it’s… nice.
His touch is warm against my skin, grounding in a way I haven’t felt in too long. The ice I’ve been carrying in my chest, the frozen loneliness that’s been keeping me numb and sharp-edged, softens. Just a little. A tiny crack.
And I hate that I don’t hate it.
We reach the bar, and I order four glasses of champagne. Overkill, maybe, but subtle has never been my strength. Besides, Marcus would never order champagne—everyone knows he’s more a whiskey guy than bubbles. So I lean into theperformance, piling on the overcompensation in hopes it throws suspicion off our trail.
“My feet are killing me,” I mutter, more to the universe than to anyone at the bar.
“C’mere.” Marcus’s tone leaves no room for argument. He steers me toward a dark blue couch tucked in the corner, half-hidden behind heavy velvet drapes. Then, without hesitation, he sits and pulls me onto his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My breath stutters. Heat floods my cheeks. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying to sound indignant when really I’m far too aware of the solid warmth of his thighs beneath me, and the steady press of his hand at my hip anchoring me in place.
“Your feet are sore,” he says simply, his voice calm but threaded with steel. “And I need to get information. Two birds, one stone.”
His gaze flicks across the room, and I follow it. A cluster of vampires lounge opposite us, their laughter too loud, their gestures too loose, the gleam of fangs catching in the low light.
“Do you think they fed off drunk humans?” I whisper, keeping my lips close to his ear so no one else can overhear.
“Must’ve,” he murmurs back, the heat of his breath brushing my temple. “They can’t drink alcohol.”
The words are practical, factual, but the way his voice rumbles through me, all low and possessive, makes my pulse race faster than it should. I don’t know if it’s the vampires I should be worried about, or the dangerous energy simmering between Marcus and me.
I need a distraction, and like Marcus said, we need information. After all, that’s what we’re here for. My eyes sweep the room, lazy, practiced, as if I’m bored instead of strung tight as a bow. But beneath the mask, my awareness keeps circling back to one thing.
Marcus’s hand.
It’s firm and unshakable on my hip. The warmth of it seeps through fabric and skin, steady and grounding. I can’t stop cataloging the way it feels. Right. Too right. Like his palm was made to fit there, like it’s always belonged. Am I drunk on his pheromones?
Every so often, his fingers twitch, a barely there movement that lights up my nerves like sparks under my skin. I can’t tell if it’s unconscious, or if he’s fighting the same current I am. My wolf leans into it instinctively, pressing closer inside me, urging me to stop pretending this isn’t exactly what she’s wanted all along.
But doubt gnaws at me. Is he comfortable with this? Or is he just performing, playing his part because that’s what the mission demands? The thought leaves me restless. I tell myself I don’t care. Except I do. I care too much.
So, I focus on what my wolf knows better than my mind ever could: his heartbeat. Strong and steady… until it isn’t. Every now and then, it falters, skipping like a record, stuttering in a way that makes my chest tighten. And it always happens when I shift against him. When my thigh brushes his. When I breathe too close to his neck.
The realization makes my pulse trip over itself. Because it means I’m not the only one unraveling here.
My gaze snags on the vampire in front of me. Her nails catch the light, a shimmering deep purple, so dark they look almost black until the gleam flashes across them. They’re sharp, polished, predatory, and gorgeous.
I’m about to take feminism back a few hundred years here, but needs must. Sometimes you play the fool to get what you need.
“Oh my god, I love your nails.”
Before she can react, I seize her hand delicately and hold it up to the light, angling it this way and that as if the only thing that matters is her manicure. “Where did you get them done?”
Her whole face brightens, the way women always do when their little vanities are admired. She preens, flicking her hair back before inspecting her other hand as if rediscovering her own brilliance. “There’s a salon in Moonfen,” she says with pride. “Ask for Veleria. She works magic. Quite literally.”
“Figures,” I murmur with a conspiratorial grin, then make a great show of turning my own hands over with disdain. My nails are plain, unpolished, the way I like them, but I make a show of being embarrassed. “I desperately need mine done. But I’ve been too nervous to go anywhere since…”
I lower my voice, leaning in as if sharing scandal. “All that nonsense with the blood warehouse. And the kidnapping.”
She leans in closer, her perfume burning my nose. “Oh, don’t I know what you mean. I was terrified. But Damian says there’s nothing to worry about. Right, baby?” She rests back and kisses her date on the neck. Ugh, his leathers are so tight, I can see the immediate effect her kiss has on him.
“Yeah?” Marcus drawls, leaning back like he hasn’t a care in the world. His body screams nonchalance, but I can feel the focus beneath his charm. “You’re not worried your missus will get hurt?”
The vampire shrugs with a little smirk. “Not so much anymore. Not now that the Mephistus coven is going to be knocked down a peg or two.”
Marcus tilts his head. “Oh yeah? How so?”
